


Follow

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Pilgrim's Crown [11]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: F/M, PoE Inktober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-11 23:57:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18434792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: When Iovara learnt the truth, she could never cast any spell again. Deòiridh still can.





	Follow

**Author's Note:**

> (PoE inktober, prompt 9: Follow)

One day more. One week. One month. She gave him her word; she will not go back on her promise. Small steps, just one at a time. But she is… Exhausted, beyond anything she has ever experienced. That void she glimpsed in Thaos’ soul – that left another hole in her heart. She is carrying her own emotions – the bitterness of _knowing_ , too much, about everything; the bitterness of seeing that all what mattered in her life was a dream, nothing more – but it still matters and that only makes the pain worse.

But now – ever since that time she asked him about his irregular evening prayers – she can also feel his burden, sense the emotions he shuts away, sense… This is too much for a mortal’s soul to carry. But she keeps her word because he promised, too.

It is getting dark, and Deòiridh closes the window and walks over to the table, to light the candles, forcing herself not to look at Thaos’ reflection in the thin adra panel. She reaches out, her thumb, index and middle finger straight and the other two digits curled, and draws a familiar symbol over the candles; the fire blooms on the wicks like wild flowers.

When Iovara learnt the truth, she could never cast any spell again. Deòiridh still can.

* * *

 

The spell they are learning is not the easiest, but one of the first the acolytes are taught. It feels right, proper, to have the fire of their faith tested at the beginning – literally.

Deòiridh remembers Iovara talking about this particular skill on the way from the temple in Creitum, where she met the missionaries; remembers Iovara laughing at how she failed at the spell the first few times. The story, which was amusing back then, now only makes her nervous. What if she fails, too? She is well aware there still is a very long road ahead of her, but…

She swallows a sigh and tries to push the anxiety away. Certainly, she is not the only one who wants to impress Thaos, and others seem much calmer than she feels. Her fear is unreasonable. And yet… She wants him to be proud of her. Wants to see that small smile he gives when he watches an acolyte doing something exceptionally well; wants to see the love of teaching light up his eyes. Wants to see him smiling – happy, or content, at least – more often.

Deòiridh closes her eyes, trying to focus on the exercise. She reaches out, her thumb, index and middle finger straight and the other two digits curled, her hand shaking just a little as she starts drawing the holy symbol over the candle. Slowly, she takes a deep breath. She has seen Thaos cast this spell a few times; now she recalls that image, reconstructs it in her mind, carefully painting every detail. The concentration on his face, how the very air seemed to change when he did magic, the aura of mystique and holiness emanating from him, every gesture of his palm. The shadow of his hair on his cheek, the way his eyelashes trembled slightly as his eyes moved under closed eyelids, flames blooming and coiling around his fingers…

“Careful,” Thaos says, quietly enough not to startle her, as he gently puts his palm on hers. “We don’t want to start a fire.” He sounds amused.

Deòiridh blinks and, blushing – she hopes it does not show much, but her cheeks are hot – looks down at their hands. There is fire dancing at her fingertips – her doing, not his; she can feel the tingling of magic under her skin. Thaos is merely trying to control it – for a moment, he moves his hand aside, and the fire flares up so high it warms her face.

His palm covers hers again – the touch light, just a protective shield – and the fire turns into a small candle flame.

“Remember the image, learn the shape of the fire,” he instructs barely above a whisper. “Warm, not scorching. Just a small point of light.”

This time, when he withdraws his hand, she keeps the flame under control. Just a little brighter than his, just a little too unstable. But plausible, Deòiridh thinks – hopes – as she slowly extinguishes it.

Thaos steps back, and when she turns, he is watching her, a small smile on his face, one which makes the line of his lips soften just a fraction… Suddenly, Deòiridh is glad her face is flushed from the heat of the fire, because it means that for a moment, she cannot blush more.

“You have great potential,” Thaos says. “And talent.” His smile and the approval in his voice warm her entire being just as the fire warmed her fingers. “You only need to learn to go slowly. It is easier not to trip when you are taking small steps.”

* * *

 

She feels a soft touch at her wrist, and then Thaos’ palm slides over hers. He says nothing, just holds his hand there, letting the flames lick at their fingers – warm, _too_ warm, on the verge of burning, but still harmless – and standing so close she can feel just the slightest hints of his body heat, almost but not quite in his arms.

“Iovara could never do it, after she learnt the truth,” he murmurs at last, repeating her earlier thought. “But you can.”

He does not ask for an explanation because he knows, has known all along; he says that to make her think of it. To remind her.

Lately, Deòiridh has been wondering about that more and more often. She believed in the gods – still believes that they are necessary, that they are the better choice, that they can give people hope; she simply run out of hers. The divine magic is fuelled by her own faith; therefore, she should not be able to cast spells.

But maybe she has always believed in Thaos more, and he is still the focal point of her life. Or maybe…

He brings her hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to her knuckles, one, then another… He is asking, without words, his mouth gently spelling the question across her skin. Asking her to take just one small step.

In some ways, this is the most honest he has ever been with her, the bitterness of his truths tainting their intimacy. But she has never felt that deeply how much she loves him; not like now, when he tries to comfort her, but _seeks_ comfort in her, too. Maybe not comfort; _oblivion_. Maybe that is the only form of solace still available to him.

“Isn’t forgetting about the sins as good as an absolution?” Thaos mutters into her ear. “If only for a while,” he adds; a sigh more than words.

She mirrors his earlier gesture – takes his hand in hers and lifts it to her mouth. It is not even a kiss; she just presses her lips to his fingers, swearing her oath all over again.

“I am sorry,” he whispers, kissing her forehead.

“No, you aren’t,” she corrects softly, without reproach. He is not because he cannot be, she knows that now.

“I’m allowed this kind of… remorse.”

It hurts, to be reminded that he does not care the way she does – he never has. But this – bitterness, pain, regret – maybe those are the last shreds of humanity within him. Maybe…

“Please, don’t speak of it.” Deòiridh shakes her head. “Not with words.”

He does not talk more, and she is glad of that. Grateful, in a way. Only his silence can be truly honest.

And then he writes apologies across her face and skin, with his hands and his mouth and broken gasps. When she clings to him – holds him – warm weight, anchoring her to that small space where only the two of them exist, for a few heartbeats, for a few deep breaths against her neck – when she is a blinding light – she knows why she still follows, even though her feet can barely carry her onwards.

Deòiridh has never been more certain of anything in her life than of her love for him. In a way, she has been happiest when she only admired him from afar, cherished his smiles and his quiet blessing, the acknowledgement of her feelings – she did not notice it, back then, but now she is aware that he knew, that he waited – and she is grateful for it. And for what came next, that brief moment when she had hope, when she believed that he cared for her, too – he _does_ , in his own way, but it is very different from what she expected, and not the kind of love she wanted – but the moment before she discovered that particular truth was the brightest part of her life, despite all. And now, when his kisses often taste of her own tears and their lovemaking is bitter – desperate; she knows she is, but sometimes, there is also an echo of _his_ feelings – now she can truly see what remains hidden maybe even from him.

She is his moment of peace; no thoughts of the past, no present or future, just heartbeat and breaths and that quiet, barely audible sigh of relief when he presses his face against her neck and she holds him, burying her nose in his hair, and on that single exhale the very air around them seems to shudder. She can _feel_ that sigh in her mind because it comes from his very soul.

He is so tired. Exhausted. She is, too, but he needs her, even if he rarely speaks of it using words. She will rest soon – he promised – she will shed that burden and begin a new life, she will forget everything – but he will not, he will never. He let her break her heart, her soul – but he is the only one who can soothe her pain. Sometimes, she wonders if he did that all on purpose, or whether some parts were more of an accident. Every single time, she decides that she would rather not know.

When she thinks that, the smell of incense on his hair seems suffocating, but she only holds him more tightly and the strange sensation disappears. She kisses the top of his head and Thaos stirs, moves away and lies beside her.

He strokes her cheek. “Thank you,” he whispers, kissing her gently.

She could easily mistake it for tenderness. She wants to, despite all. That is why she stays at his side – because there are still times when his truth can be almost as sweet as his lies.

Tomorrow, when they wake, she will probably not remember half of this – of her musings. He cannot take away memories – not the most important ones, not those which shattered her life, not those which are the very fabric of the soul – but she is grateful that he can at least take away her doubts, if only for a while.

This, Deòiridh thinks, is what really fuels her magic and her determination. She still _wants_ to believe him.


End file.
